


Alexander Hamilton and Silence

by south_like_sherman



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Oops, Panic, Sorry Not Sorry, whoops silly hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 04:26:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8518435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/south_like_sherman/pseuds/south_like_sherman
Summary: "Alexander Hamilton was a man who hated silence. So, overall, it was ironic that silence was the music that eventually serenaded him from this world."orAlexander Hamilton's thoughts during *the* duel





	

Alexander Hamilton was a man who hated silence. Silence, to him, meant death, silence meant sickness, silence meant his mother, lying in a forgotten ditch somewhere so far away on an island where there was nothing but noise, silence meant cold, silence meant the letter from John's father lying on his desk, silence meant the loll of Philip's lifeless head against the thin hospital bed. So, overall, it was ironic that silence was the only thing he could hear at this moment, with death so close he could almost taste it.

He had never before hesitated in his life, throwing himself into everything with reckless abandon, only worrying about the consequences later. It's what he had built his life on, tossing wild shots into the dark, writing his way out of poverty, joining the revolution just for the slightest hope of a better world, it's what had brought him to Laurens, and what had eventually led to the chaotic muddle he lived in now. His son, shot in a duel (a duel so achingly similar to the one he took part in now) under Alexander's own misguided instruction, his wife, heartbroken after an ill advised affair, and Aaron Burr (his first friend, his enemy) about to raise a gun against him. He didn't regret it, though. Not for an instant.

But now, he hesitated, just for a moment, although his footsteps didn't falter. This was the same spot Philip was shot. Alexander couldn't help but wonder, if he had been afraid. God, of course he was afraid, he was nineteen- barely grown into his man's body (too young to duel, too young to die), but there was a spark in his eyes that had reminded Alexander so much of himself. The same determination, same reckless abandon that had been the death of Philip- and would probably be the death of him, too.

He was on his eighth step already. _God_ , he needed more _time_ , just a little more. There were only ten steps in a duel. Ten steps, and then whatever came next. _The other side_.

_Another step._

Maybe this was all Alexander would leave behind, a trail of footprints and a messy bloodstain on white snow, maybe that was all they'd remember him by- a bullet and a bloody, unnecessary duel. Maybe these steps he took now would be his legacy ( _legacy_ ).

_final step._

His **bullet** ( _his legacy_ ) shot into the wide, empty sky. He could see Burr, through his blurry vision, raising his **pistol** ,

 _s q u e e z i n g_ the **trigger** and somewhere, a **gunshot** s _o_ u _n_ d _e_ d (it m u s t  
have been  
f _a_ r  
away it sounded so _e m p t y_  
and it **e c h o e d** , echoed around his head like church bells, **funeral bells** )  
**gunshots** didn't echo gunshots D E S T R O Y ED  
and _created_ , bloody flowers b _l_ o _o_ m _i_ n _g_ where a steel bullet t o u c h e d) and his hand (his hand, **stained** with i _n_ k) was

r e a c h i n g

towards the s **K** y, the _blue_ , **blue** sky, blue like **E l i z a'** s eyes (he loved Eliza, he knew that, maybe if he was quick he could make it home before she woke up- _God_ , couldn't wait to see her again), and the **ground** was coming closer, or maybe he was  
f  
a  
l  
l  
  
i

n  
  
g, or maybe (maybe) the world was  
**c  
**  o  
   l  
    l  
     a  
       p  
         s  
           i  
            n  
              g

( _crumbling_ )

C R A S H I N G

**d  
** o  
w  
n 

around his head and **_burning_** and there was an a _w_ f _u_ l, **_agonising_**

**P A I N**

b l o o m i n g just **above** his hip and his vision was blurring, he couldn't _see_ , he couldn't  
s e e and his ears were  
r i n  g  i   n    g and _everything hurt_ , and **someone** ( _somewhere_ ), was **screaming** or maybe that was h i m and **_no_** , he wasn't _finished_ , he needed more _time_ , more _words_ ( **words** ) his only d e f e n c e he had and _oh God_ **_E L I Z A_** -

 

 

  
**_silence._ **

 

 

 

 

 

 

_•  new jersey •_

_  
The snow is flawless, a pristine white carpet that glistens in the weak winter sunlight; interrupted only by several sets of footprints. All of them continue, uninterrupted, carrying on with their everyday lives- all of them, that is, apart from one. There is a set of footprints, that stops, abruptly, as though the maker couldn't bear to keep walking. A brilliant scarlet flower blossoms in the snow where he fell._

**Author's Note:**

> so, I hope y'all *enjoyed* that. . . if you liked it, maybe leave a kudos or comment, that'd really make my day!  
> thanks for reading! If anyone's even reading...  
> Please come scream incoherent noises at me on tumblr (@the-girl-who-cried-ship) bc rn the only people following me are porn blogs please change that
> 
> pEaCe oUt
> 
> ~Kinzie


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